


Such Solace Find We for Our Loss

by gwyllgi



Series: Herc/Raleigh Bingo Challenge [3]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyllgi/pseuds/gwyllgi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An empty casket is all of Chuck Herc has to bury.  Raleigh may know a thing or two about what that's like.  <i>Chuck was buried on the first of March, with all the pomp and circumstance due a hero.</i></p><p>Written for the Herc/Raleigh Bingo Challenge prompt: Hand</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bingo Card

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a William Wordsworth poem, _By The Side Of The Grave Some Years After_.
> 
> For lack of anywhere better to put it, the first chapter is my bingo card. Click on through to chapter 2 for the fic.


	2. Such Solace Find We for Our Loss

Chuck was buried on the first of March, with all the pomp and circumstance due a hero. With the PPDC numbers decimated, the Australian Defence Force had stepped in to provide honorary services—escort, firing party, bearers, a band and gun carriage, even the chaplain—though Mako insisted on a place as insignia bearer; while she and Chuck had never been friends, they had been friendly—most of the time—and she wanted to honor him in what way she could, both personally and as one of the few Rangers left.

Herc hadn't fought it, hadn't had the energy to argue.

He'd made the arrangements for Stacker's ceremony, the memorial in London, the burial of his empty casket in Hawaii—next to Tamsin, together in death as they had been in life. The memorial had been a quiet, understated ceremony, despite the people who came in droves to watch one of the heroes who had saved the world be honored. The burial, on the other hand, had been closed, only a few members of the PPDC in attendance to watch as the casket was lowered into the ground, the final salute to the man who had steered the course of the world.

The thought of doing the same for Chuck had sickened him.

Tendo, bless him, had stepped in, coordinating with the ADF, arranging the burial, even selecting the casket. It had taken so long—nearly two months—that Herc had nearly had time to talk himself into not attending.

He hadn't accounted for Raleigh Becket.

A pilot without a Jaeger, no one had been sure what Raleigh would do with the war over. Some had expected him to disappear again, to run back to Alaska and help with the teardown of the wall he had helped to build. Others expected him to stay on as the PPDC poster boy—and to some extent he had, having taken over many of the PR duties, selling the PPDC to the grateful world with an easy smile and eyes that had seen too much.

Few realized that the majority of his time was actually spent taking care of the newly-minted Marshal.

It was Raleigh who kept Herc fed, leaving sandwiches at his elbow as he worked, apples, cups of pudding. He never judged him when the food would still be mostly-untouched when he brought the next meal, simply switching out the old tray for the new. When he noticed the pudding disappearing the most regularly, he silently added another cup to each tray he brought, giving him a soft smile when Herc touched his arm in gratitude.

It was Raleigh who coaxed Herc to bed when he passed out at his desk, hauling an arm over his shoulder and all but carrying him to his quarters. He'd pull off his boots and tuck him under his blanket, dimming the lights but never turning them completely off, so Herc would always have just enough illumination when he startled awake some hours later to realize where he was.

It was Raleigh who left books for Herc—on his desk, on his bed, anywhere he might need a distraction from his newly-developed insomnia. Herc found himself picking them up to give himself something to focus on that wasn't his own thoughts, losing himself in the stories. Raleigh's tastes seemed to be eclectic: _Lord of the Rings_ and _The Tale of Genji_ , _Gulliver's Travels_ and _The Aeneid_ , _Much Ado About Nothing_ and _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_. When Herc had off-handedly mentioned that he'd enjoyed the tale of the boy wizard more than he'd expected, Raleigh's grin had been blinding, and Herc had discovered the rest of the series in his quarters the next day.

It was Raleigh who made sure Max was walked and fed when Herc was otherwise occupied, and it was Raleigh's tale of a bathing disaster—Max had never been much for baths—that made Herc laugh for the first time since Chuck had died, startling them both. They'd stared at each other in silence until Herc swallowed thickly and apparently kicked Raleigh into action to complete the story with pantomimed demonstrations. Herc had spent the rest of that afternoon reliving the memory, from the sparkle in Raleigh's eyes to the flailing of his hands as he'd reenacted Max's dripping escape, and if he'd been caught with a faint smile every now and then, well, no one was going to begrudge him that.

It was Raleigh who would join him on his insomniac perambulations, touring the 'dome in the small hours of the morning. Together they'd wander through the empty Jaeger bays or explore its bowels where its power plant serial numbers hadn't been filed off. They'd sometimes find themselves in the gym—though Herc's broken arm precluded much of his usual workout, it wasn't enough to keep him from running himself into a sweaty, exhausted mess and, if showering off afterward was awkward, the sleep it usually earned him was a welcome trade-off. Sometimes they'd talk—usually shop—but most of the time was passed in companionable silence.

It was Raleigh who put him into his uniform the morning of Chuck's service, overriding his protests with implacable action. He'd all but stuffed Herc's arms into his jacket, knotted his tie, checked that his insignia and service ribbons were in place, and tied his shoes, as though Herc was an invalid.

In some ways, he was.

Herc didn't remember how they got to the ceremony. One minute they'd been in Herc's hotel room—they'd arranged to stay in Sydney for a few days, not wanting to be shuttling back and forth from the 'dome—and the next he was in the pews of the church hosting the service, Raleigh a solid reassurance at his side. He remembered watching the empty casket, the acknowledgment of the fact that Herc hadn't had anything to bury, being loaded onto the gun carriage, the clop of the horse's hooves as they'd trotted off.

He'd struggled to stay stone-faced during the service—no doubt the media would eat it up later, describing the new Marshal as a cold bastard—and succeeded, for the most part, until he'd spotted the horse trailing the gun carriage with a saddle empty but for Chuck's boots, reversed in the stirrups. It had been a formality—rooted in tradition and mostly outdated, but dusted off in respect for Chuck's influence—and it hit him like a blow, driving the air from his lungs in a broken sob.

Raleigh's hand found his, then, lacing their fingers together. Herc, chin lowered and eyes screwed shut as he fought the grief he'd yet to give into, held into it like a lifeline. It gave him something to focus on that wasn't the sight of Chuck's casket being positioned over the open grave, the sound of the gun salute and the somber bugle playing the Last Post.

Later, he would remember little of the burial but the press of Raleigh's hand against his, his broad palm warm, his long fingers squeezing whenever Herc's breath stuttered. Herc had refused to release him even at the presentation of the flag, accepting it with his free hand and pressing it to his chest as he clung desperately to his composure.

At last, it was over and the mourners began to disperse. Herc relaxed the death grip he'd had on Raleigh's hand, though he made no move to extricate himself, relieved when Raleigh did the same.

"Do you want a moment?"

Raleigh's voice was soft, nonjudgmental, just a little uncertain. Herc wondered if he was thinking about Yancy's funeral, conducted while Raleigh was in a medically-induced coma, and squeezed Raleigh's hand. "Please," he said, and then, "Stay," when Raleigh made to pull away.

Raleigh made a noise of assent and bowed his head. They remained for a long time, surrounded by the peace of the dead laid to rest there, each lost in his own thoughts.

Chuck would have hated the ceremony—although he'd played to the camera when he'd had to, he'd always preferred to avoid the limelight. The cocky bastard he'd shown to the world had masked a quiet, driven man who preferred the company of his dog to other people, a man Herc only knew within his own mind, that now the world would never get to see. Somewhere, Chuck was looking down and rolling his eyes, calling him a drongo for good measure, and Herc smiled at the thought.

It would get easier, he knew; the sharpness of the pain would lessen as time passed, though he doubted he'd ever entirely lose the ache deep in his chest. For now, though, he'd draw what strength he could from Raleigh's grip, as long as he could, until he had enough strength of his own to let go of Raleigh's hand, to let go of the past and look to the future. It would take time—it might never happen—but Herc had the feeling that Raleigh was going to be there, as long as he needed.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Such Solace Find We for Our Loss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11944260) by [gwyllgi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyllgi/pseuds/gwyllgi)




End file.
